


The Miracle Worker

by dearcecil



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Amputation, M/M, Mindfuck, Prosthesis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-23
Updated: 2011-11-23
Packaged: 2017-10-26 11:18:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/282428
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dearcecil/pseuds/dearcecil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A man named Bob loses his leg after an accident, and his doctor refers him to Dell Conagher, a masterful prosthetic maker. Most of Conagher's work is experimental, but Bob is no stranger to new technology, so he eagerly embraces the opportunity. Bob and Dell grow closer, his prosthetic limb is made and fitted, and before he knows what's happened, Bob is quite besotted. Luckily, Dell seems to be, too.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Miracle Worker

Medic sat at his desk, looking grim as he stared at his patient, hands resting on his knee. "Herr Chapman," he said, "I am afraid the verdict is very serious."

Bob gulped, looking down at his mangled leg. He hadn't realized his peril when he'd strayed too close to the machines he'd built; hadn't realized that their sentience might one day spell trouble for him. The bulldozer hadn't stopped until he had run through a deep ditch, where it couldn't handle the sudden drop.

"How does it look, Doctor?"

Medic resisted the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose. Working with civilians might have been the best choice after he'd retired from RED, but sometimes, they were just so stupid. So unwilling to accept obvious truths. Even if his leg was numbed, the man should realize what had to be done. "You will lose the leg."

"But… Doc, no," Bob said, deep in denial. "I can't do my job without a leg. Don't they have those prosthetic limbs? Can we build it?"

"Yes, they do, but no, we cannot build it. At least, not one that will properly replace your real leg. It will inevitably be too stiff, or have some problem that keeps you from doing the quality of work, from living the life you have grown used to." He drummed his fingers on his knee, thinking. "However, I… may know a man who can help you. It would be very experimental, but—"

"I'm willing to try anything," Bob said seriously. Building was his life. He couldn't let it go.

"After the operation, I will leave his business card on the table beside you. Now… you need to rest. Lie down; the morphine should take effect shortly."

When Bob awoke, everything was hazy. He looked about the room in a daze—all white, clinical. Too hard and impersonal for him to take. For a man who dealt with robots so often, there was still something very off-putting about these stand-offish surroundings.

Or maybe Bob was just put off from the fact that, when he looked down, the blanket showed clearly what his mind still somehow seemed to reject: His right leg was gone forever. Completely taken away, just a patch of air that got passed through like anything else.

He gripped the sheets of the hospital bed for a moment before flinging them off and facing up to what had happened. It didn't look as bad as he had expected… but it was still a blow to the heart. This was a situation Bob had honestly never thought he would be in, but now that it had come to him, darn it, he would deal with it. Somehow, he would deal with it, and he would take his life back into his own hands.

He turned to hang his leg—only one to hang, now, with the other cut off at the knee—over the edge of the bed. That was when Bob noticed the business card placed neatly on the short table beside his bed, with his doctor's precise, tiny handwriting on the top. He picked it up: "This is the man who I believe can help you. I have worked alongside him before."

 _Dell Conagher_ , the card said in blue text. There was a nine-digit phone number next to the name. He placed the card back on the table and pursed his lips.

He would be giving this man a call when he got let out of the hospital, most definitely.

* * *

Bob smiled at the nurse as she helped him into his ride home—his cousin had obliged to give him a ride, though with some hesitation. Bob's family wasn't entirely accepting of his strange forays into the new science of robotics, especially since the accident. It was just lucky that Jake was a physics major. At least he could understand Bob's love for science, if not his love for technology. "You're gonna be all right on your own?" Jake asked as he walked beside Bob to the door of his house, eyeing him warily. Bob was still getting used to his crutches. "Living would be a hell of a lot easier with someone to help you."

"I'll be fine," Bob said, smiling. "Thanks, though. You're a great friend for doing this."

"You're family, Bob," Jake said simply as he opened Bob's door for him and carried the folded up wheelchair the hospital had insisted on inside. "Anything you need, you can just call me, all right? You've got my number. If Ellie picks up, she knows what to do; so do the kids."

"Thank you, really," Bob said. "If I ever get the need… I know what to do." He patted his cousin's back as he left the house, but frowned when he shut the door, taking the business card his doctor had given him out of his pocket.

Jake was good-hearted, Bob knew, but something tugged at his pride when he thought of calling up his family for help, especially when they were still so reluctant to even share a meal with him, much less help him live his life. If he could just find a way to get more _mobile_ , if he could just be able to take care of himself again, and not have to worry about every little thing—

Bob reread the number on the card a few times. "Can I do it?"

He thought of what Jake's sweet little girl would say if she picked up the phone and Uncle Bob was calling for help getting down the stairs, and gritted his teeth. "Yes, I can."

Bob crossed slowly to the kitchen, where the nearest phone was, and leaned against the wall as he picked up the receiver. He dialed the number and sat through three rings before it was answered, a rough, Texan accent greeting him: "Dell Conagher, what can I do for you?"

Bob pushed through his anxiety. "Bob Chapman," he said in reply, frowning. "I recently had a bit of an accident; ended up with my leg getting… well, amputated. I asked my doctor if there was anything I could do, and he gave me your card. I hope I'm not being too rude by asking what it is you do?"

"Oh, I make prosthetic limbs," Conagher said, sounding thoughtful. "What did you say your doctor's name was?"

"Doctor Steinman," he said. "Er, Hans Steinman is his full name, I think."

Conagher laughed. "Well, isn't that just a kick in the pants. All right, I'll take you up, maybe even drop the charge for it a bit."

"Thank you so much," Bob said sincerely. "I'd be willing to pay full—"

"No, no, it's fine," Conagher interrupted. "Steinman and I, we're, uh… old pals." He rattled off an address—a full state away, but Bob could deal with it—and told him to come over to his office whenever he could. Bob thanked him profusely, thanking God that his doctor was so well-connected, and hung up with his heart feeling lighter than it had in weeks.

* * *

Bob's profession (or, rather, professions: one building houses and such, the other building robots) added to his frugal lifestyle meant that he had more than enough money to make his way to the heart of Texas with little trouble. As he looked up at the clean, trim little house at the edge of a suburb, he felt some trepidation, despite knowing that appearances could be incredibly deceiving. He knocked on the door and was met by a short, stocky bald man, goggles over his eyes and a friendly grin plastered on his face. "You must be Bob Chapman, come on in."

"It's great to meet you, Mister Conagher," Bob said, shaking the man's hand. He had a firm grip, but Bob couldn't tell what his hand was like beneath the rubber glove he was wearing. (He was used to it; his doctor never took his gloves off, either, for some strange reason.) "You didn't have to do anything for me, especially not with such a discount…"

"Don't mention it," Conagher said calmly. "And call me Dell."

"Oh, all right," Bob said, relaxed by the man's informality. "Then you can call me Bob, Dell." He smiled, but his arms were straining him a bit from having to go up the few steps leading to Dell's front door. "Do you have a place I could, ah, sit down?"

"Of course," Dell said. "I'm sorry, things just don't really cross my mind when I'm thinking about a new case like yours." He led Bob to a comfortable looking living room with a couch that he sunk into gladly, sighing with relief as he leaned his crutches against the side. "Do you mind if I take a look?"

"Oh, no, you can—yeah," Bob said, rolling up his pant-leg. He still wore them all the way down, despite the fact that it flapped with the wind when he went out. "It's not very pretty."

Dell rolled the excess fabric up until he could see the end of the stump of leg Bob still had, the skin gnarled. "It's a shame, definitely. But I think I could cook up a little something for you that you'd like."

"Really?"

"I've done it plenty of times before," Dell said, smiling. He took his glove off, and Bob suddenly realized why the man probably kept it on when he was with company. From the middle of his arm downward, Dell was all metal. It was exquisite: Precise digits, metal that still held a shine even though it must be quite old (since he had apparently been in business for quite some time), and a certain… military feel to it, something Bob couldn't exactly place his finger on.

"That's amazing," Bob said. It was a bit of a struggle to get out; his throat seemed to have caught on itself at some point, a big lump in the middle of it that he couldn't explain and didn't want to think much about.

"Do you like it?" Dell asked, flexing his fingers. They moved as smoothly, perhaps even more smoothly, than any human hand. "It's the second one I ever made. The first one wasn't as refined—hydraulic wires sticking out, bulky, all that sort of thing—and a little too dangerous to keep on when I was around civilized society. Called her the Gunslinger; my pride and joy, if I'm honest. Culmination of a life's work. My grandfather designed it."

"That's really fantastic," Bob said, clutching the edge of the couch with one hand. "And you could give me something like that?" The awe in his voice was not affected; he was truly amazed by this man's generosity, by his ability.

"'Course I can, Bob," Dell said, "and thank you kindly for the compliments. I'll just need to take some measurements from your other leg if you don't mind."

"Go ahead," Bob said. "I'd do anything to get a leg as good as that arm."

Dell laughed as he grabbed a tape measure from one of the short tables in his living room, smiling at Bob. "I see you're a robot enthusiast, too, then? And no, it won't be like this. It'll be better." He pulled the measuring tape out swiftly and set it against Bob's leg, from the knee to the heel, the heel to the toe, and so on. "It's been about a decade since I made this baby."

Bob let out a shaky breath, and Dell caught his eye, though his own were just barely visible from behind the goggles. "I know how it feels. Having a limb that just doesn't work the way you want it to, or, hell, just isn't there at all." He patted Bob's knee before straightening up and grabbing a notepad, scribbling down the numbers he'd gotten. He took out a loose tape measure next and wrapped it around Bob's calf.

"It's really not something I ever felt could happen to me," Bob said quietly. "Then again, I'm sure no one really thinks they're going to have that sort of problem."

"How'd you lose it?" Dell asked as he peered down at the tape.

"Er—" Bob paused. "Well, it's a little complicated."

"I've got time," Dell said, wrapping the tape around his ankle. "And I'm willing to listen to any story. These things happen in crazy ways; one of my clients got into a fight with a bear, lost her left arm. Holy shit, I know, but… that's life. A whole mess of problems and insanity."

Bob chuckled weakly. "Yeah, I guess you're right. It goes like this: I like technology. Love it, even. So my tools… sometimes, I just can't help making them different from what they originally were. Improving them, if you'd like. And that idea goes from all of my small tools all the way up to my bigger ones."

"Ain't you in construction?" Dell asked, his lips quirked as though he knew where the story was going.

"Yes, I am, and I got stupid. I took my bulldozer and I made it, just, this thing that really shouldn't have existed. It could move itself around, it could do work with minimal supervision, I even think that, with a few adjustments, the thing probably could have learned to talk."

Dell shook his head as he wrote down more of the numbers and straightened up. "I don't mess with that type of thing. You're getting a little too close to self-awareness, if not actually reaching it, and that doesn't spell a good ending for me."

Bob laughed quietly. "You sound like my old colleagues from the university. And you're right, it didn't spell a good ending: The thing chased me down. Tried to kill me. I wonder if I didn't reach that level of consciousness people are so afraid of, and make it feel overworked and underappreciated." He snorted, and Dell clapped him on the shoulder.

"Just make sure to keep out of that sort of trouble once you've got my work holding you up, all right?"

"I doubt I'll be working with robotics for a while at all," Bob said honestly, grabbing his crutches before he hauled himself up. "Did you get everything you need? I'm sorry, I don't really know the whole prosthetic business, how it works—"

"If I need anything else, I'll call you," Dell said easily. He was so casual as he walked to the door with Bob that he barely noticed the way his hand rested on his back, as though to help him stay on his feet (well, his foot and crutches). The man was just good at putting people at ease, apparently.

"Thank you so much, again, Dell," Bob said when he had made his way down the stairs. Dell had stayed beside him the whole way, calmly and quietly telling him little pieces of information about the prosthetic and how long it would take to get back to him, and Bob found he didn't resent his watchfulness at all. It was… comforting.

"No problem, Bob, no problem at all. You take care of yourself." Bob nodded and turned to go to his car before Dell touched his elbow, frowning. "Just a tic—how'd you get here on your own?"

"My left foot's just as good as my right one," Bob said, chin held up just in case he got a lecture about the idiocy of driving with only one foot. Instead, Dell guffawed, patting his shoulder.

"You're a braver man than I am. Just don't get yourself pulled over, now."

* * *

Bob sat straight up in the bed of his hotel when he heard his cell phone ringing, and snatched it off the nightstand, looking down at the display. It was Dell, finally calling after over a week of Bob waiting nervously, trying to distract himself with typical tourist wandering and taking advantage of the hotel's television set, placed conveniently adjacent to the bed. "Hello?" he asked. It wasn't a proper greeting, but it was all he could get out.

"Sorry for the late call," Dell said, "but I've only just finished your leg, and thought you ought to know."

Bob tightened his grip on his cell phone, but only because he was sure shock would have made him drop it otherwise. He knew Dell could hear how shaky his breath was, and he didn't care. He raised a hand to his forehead as he took in the full meaning of that statement.

"You can come pick it up tomorrow, any time you like." Dell still sounded casual, ignoring Bob's sudden surge of emotion rather than embarrassing him by bringing it up. "I'll see you whenever you drop by, Bob." He hung up.

Bob was grateful for the man's tact as he dropped his cell phone and wept with gratitude and relief.

* * *

"It's beautiful," Bob said as Dell brought the artificial leg into the kitchen, where he'd insisted the man wait, pushing a cup of tea into his hand. Bob was glad for the warm anchor now as he gripped it, almost hard enough to break the porcelain, gazing at the prosthetic limb with wide eyes. "Thank you," Dell said with a smile, setting the limb down on his wooden table. "You'll want to try it on, see if it fits, make sure it doesn't chafe—I can adjust it if it does—and just get a feel for it. It'll be a lot different from your old leg, of course, but… it'll be something."

Bob set his tea cup down and ran a hand over the leg, relishing the smoothness of the metal, taking in the slim design of it. "Thank you so much." He caught Dell's eye (his goggles were off, which mean Bob could see how striking his blue eyes were) and smiled. "I really don't know what else to say."

"You may need a little help, so if it's not too much of a bother, I could…?" Dell motioned between Bob's stump and the prosthetic, eyebrows raised.

"That would be great," said Bob. He had been worrying about his own ability to do it on his own the first time, but felt too nervous to ask for help. He supposed he shouldn't have been, though: Dell was amiable, and this wasn't just his job. It was his art. He turned his chair, grateful the man had told him to wear shorts that day, and pulled his right pant-leg up a bit to expose the end of his thigh.

"So how does this all work, anyway?"

Dell took the seat beside Bob, grabbing something that looked a bit like a sock, and another that looked fleshier but which had a sort of spike coming out of the end, from the edge of the table. Bob had barely noticed them before, but now they had his full attention.

"It's a lot simpler than it seems," Dell explained, "up until the actual attachment. Basically, you've got to put this one first—" he held up the sock "—followed by this one—" the one with the spike "—and you put the rod into a little groove in the leg itself. From there, you've just got to adjust until you get it right, and if it doesn't work out the first time, you redo it until it works out for you. Personally, I think legs are a bit trickier than arms when it comes to that part, although the preparation is definitely harder when you've only got one hand to work with."

Bob nodded, understanding why Dell had volunteered to help him put the leg on. "Sounds like it's going to take a lot of getting used to."

"It might," Dell admitted, rolling the fleshy part of the sock with the rod down, "but it's worth it. Do you mind?" he asked, hovering with the piece near Bob's thigh.

"No, go ahead, I'll just—hold on—" Bob stood, steadying himself on the table so it would be easier for Dell to get the thing over his stump. He swallowed when it touched his bare skin, and his fingers twitched against the wooden surface of the table as Dell rolled up the imitation flesh. It stuck strangely against Bob's real skin, and he laughed a little. "Feels weird."

"Doesn't it, though?" Dell smiled up at him from his seat and took up the sock, which Bob now noticed, as he rolled it back, had a hole in the middle. Dell fitted it easily around the rod and sock he'd just put on for Bob, and nodded. "Here comes the difficult part, now." He picked up the fake limb from the table and set its foot on the floor, and rested his hand against the side of Bob's thigh, helping him guide the leg up and connect it to the rod.

Bob leaned down on it a bit, but it didn't feel quite right. "Might need to try again," he said, frowning. "It's… off, somehow. Like when your shoe's tied too tightly."

"I gotcha," Dell said, helping Bob out of the leg and rolling the sock pieces off. "It can be a pretty long process, mind."

"It's all right." Bob bit the inside of his lip when Dell's hand brushed against his bare skin, and shook his head. "I can be patient."

"Patience is a virtue," Dell laughed as he rolled up the rod piece again, this time just a bit differently. He put the sock up over it again, and they attached the leg a second time. Now, when Bob put pressure on the leg, he nodded slowly. It felt right.

"This is great," Bob told Dell as the man leaned back, hands resting on his knees. "It's not anything like my real leg—"

Dell held up a hand. "No, don't call it that," he said. "Call it a biological leg, maybe, but don't act like one is _real_ and the other isn't. They're both real, and they're both a part of you, Bob. Separating the terms like that, it'll just make you feel bad."

Bob put more weight on his new leg, flexing it some. "I'll take that advice," he said. "Dell… this is really a wonderful invention. It doesn't feel like my biological leg, but it feels good. Like it belongs there. And it's so, not flexible, but… movable. It's a masterpiece."

The man just chuckled, scratching his cheek, but Bob really meant it. The prosthetic was amazing, and Dell himself was amazing. Here he was, a construction worker who'd went too far with his experiments and created bulky monsters, and there was Dell, a good old boy from Texas who made the field of robotics every bit as respectable, every bit as worthy of admiration, as any form of the fine arts. He bent his new knee again and felt his heart soar as he thought of all of the possibilities this man, Dell Conagher, had just opened up for him.

"I'm glad it works out fine," Dell said, standing from his seat. "You're sure there's nothing to adjust, though? Sometimes it takes a bit of time to figure out, so if you need me to change the size, smooth anything down—"

"I'll definitely call you, give you progress reports," Bob said, grinning.

"Perfect. You might want to take these as well," Dell said, holding up a pair of flesh-tone shorts that looked a bit like a woman's girdle. "They're nothing much to look at, especially on a man, but they'll help give you a tighter attachment between the flesh and the prosthetic."

Bob took them from Dell, and once the man had walked him to the door again—Bob holding his crutches at his side this time—he stuck out his hand, gripping Dell's metal prosthetic eagerly. "You're a miracle worker, Dell," he said. "If I need any changes, I'll call. And if you ever want to contact me for a drink, or for some more experimental robotics, you have my number." He kept his tone light, joking, but Bob meant it.

Dell snorted. "Might just take you up on that, friend." He watched Bob get to his car and waved as he drove away.

* * *

Bob didn't need any adjustments made to his prosthetic, so he didn't call Dell. Instead, the man called him, just a bit after noon. "Feel like sharing a beer?" Bob laughed. It had been two weeks since he had left, and that was Dell's greeting. "All the way over in Texas? That's a little more pricey than my usual fare."

"Well, the beer may or may not be shared over a humanoid robot that I may or may not be asking for help on," Dell said. Bob could just imagine the way he would be scratching his chin.

"I may or may not be on my way."

"Jesus," Bob said simply as he stepped into Dell's basement. The walls were lined with blueprints, and a large worktable took up the center of the room, which was flooded with fluorescent lighting. On that table lay a slender, shining robot, its chest compartment opened to reveal a mess of wires.

"I'll take that as a compliment," Dell said, walking to the table.

Bob followed and stared at the robot's chest for a moment—it was incomprehensible; he'd have to ask Dell the meaning of all of the connections and such—before looking up at its face. He shouldn't have been surprised that Dell was good at creating realistic human features, he thought. The man made his money building people fake body parts; he had to have a certain skill for imitating the look of the human body. Still, he was taken aback by the facial structure of the robot.

It looked more human than any android Bob had ever seen. Clearly male, it had a covering that imitated flesh more effectively than even the sock piece he'd been given to connect his prosthetic leg. He peered at the features Dell had given it: Roman nose, sharp cheekbones, thin lips. Dark eyebrows, long lashes. The face was long in a way that made it look more exotic than sullen. Its ears were large, but he thought it was a conscious decision, rather than a mistake.

"Who is it?" he asked quietly, resting his hand on the table.

"Just an old friend," Dell said, smiling. Bob knew it was just his imagination that he looked older now, but it still touched him. "What I was really looking for was help on this right here…"

* * *

Bob sat in the kitchen next to Dell, taking a swig of his beer—it tasted all right, but he'd had better—and nodding. "Yeah, definitely not one of my brightest ideas," he agreed. Dell had nearly fallen out of his chair laughing when Bob had relayed the story of the time in university when, drunk and working on three days of no sleep, he had decided it would be a good idea to give his stapler the ability to walk on a pair of spindly legs. It had ended up stapling his thumb repeatedly. "Really shouldn't have been so surprised by your renegade bulldozer, if that's on your track record," Dell said, leaning over the table and shaking his head. "God, Bob, you're a riot."

"A riot who's helping you work on that android of yours," Bob retaliated. "Come on, I've told you an embarrassing story, now you tell me something."

Dell scratched his chin, thinking. "Well, I haven't got many stories I'm embarrassed about, save the normal childhood experience. There was a time, back in the day, though, where my machines blew up in my face nearly every day."

Bob snorted. "Come on, you were never that bad."

"Well, it weren't exactly a case of my being bad," Dell admitted, "so much as it were a case of someone else being too good. You ever heard about BLU?"

Bob raised an eyebrow. "Who hasn't? But yes, I've done some work for them."

"Good point, good point. Sometimes I forget how big they are. Well, a long while back, I worked for BLU. When Blutarch was still in charge, see."

"You worked in the war days?"

Dell nodded, and there was faint bitterness in his voice when he said, "They say that like the war days are over." He swigged his beer and continued before Bob could get a question in sideways. "Now, I was working there as an engineer, building weapons and such to help my side. Sentry guns, health and ammunitions dispensers, teleporters—"

"You invented teleporters?" Bob blurted before he could help himself.

"Only partly invented them. I had help from my father's work, and from the RED Intelligence. Anyway, I did all of that, and it would have been a damn fine job if I hadn't had such a good… rival, I guess you'd call him. RED team's Spy, and he was one of the best. Broke my machines with that goddamn Sapper of his, blew 'em right up in my face. Got so damn sick of just taking the abuse and having to deal with it through unreliable guns, and machines he could get past, that I chopped off my own arm and replaced it with that Gunslinger I told you about."

"Oh, bullshit. You chopped your own arm off?"

"I was really, really shitfaced." Dell shrugged. "Anyway, that's pretty much the whole story. Got my shit blown to pieces and I finally lost it, and now here I am, making a profession out of all of that frustration."

Bob patted Dell on the arm. "You're a nut, Dell. Sorry to say it."

"Don't I know it."

"So, what was he like?" Bob asked after a moment.

"The spy?" At Bob's nod, Dell shrugged again. "Competent. French. Wrapped up in his appearance a lot of the time, or at least it seemed that way until I learned the suit was a uniform."

"French, huh?" Bob suddenly felt he knew the meaning behind the face of the android down in the basement. "What happened to him?"

"He died a couple of years ago," Dell said too-casually. "Lung cancer. Made sense; he smoked even when he was trying to sneak around to break my things. Weren't much of a surprise."

Bob nodded slowly. After a pregnant pause, during which he chewed on his lip and Dell finished off his seventh beer, he shifted in his seat. "I guess you miss him."

Dell sighed. "Like Hell."

"Are you shitfaced yet, Dell?" Bob asked.

"Give me a second." Dell tossed back a full beer in one go, and turned to Bob, flexing his robotic fingers and grinning hesitantly. "Feel like writing a bullshit story with me, Bob?"

"Bullshit is my middle name." He grabbed Dell's metal hand and smiled back in the same way, letting Dell lead him up the stairs to his bedroom, decorated with subtle elegance and painted dark blue. He might have appreciated it more if he hadn't been just a little too drunk to see straight, but that wasn't important at the moment. What was important was figuring out what Dell's mouth tasted like.

Right now, the answer was beer. Cheap beer and a little bit of chicken, actually. He probably should have expected that after the dinner they'd shared (barbecued chicken and beer), but Bob's mind wasn't thinking much past sex. He pressed harder against Dell and grabbed his shirt, pulling the man down as he sat down on the bed, forcing him to bend at the waist.

When he pulled back, Dell ran his hands down Bob's sides, past his hips, over his crotch, ending at his right thigh. "Right here," he said, tracing the spot where his artificial limb attached to his skin.

Bob leaned back to unbutton his pants, lifting his hips and letting Dell drag them down, shivering when he felt the man's fingers—both flesh and metal—brush over his thighs. He sat up to watch as Dell brought his hands back to the spot where his prosthetic attached, and gulped when he saw the loving stare he was giving the attachment, his touch light.

"Let me help you with that," Dell said, and his voice was rougher, deeper than Bob had ever heard it. He just nodded, spreading his legs a bit, his manhood throbbing in his boxers as Dell knelt down before him. He leaned in to brush a kiss on Bob's skin and caressed the metal leg so passionately that Bob would have sworn he could feel it, feel the pressure of his hands, the warmth of them, despite the fact that the cold metal lacked sensation.

His breath caught when Dell detached his leg, pulling it off slowly. He set it gently at the foot of the bed and grinned, pulling the sock pieces off soon after, exposing the stump of leg that Bob had been ashamed of—had hated—until he met Dell. He kissed the end of it, smiling, and looked up at Bob. "Beautiful," he told him.

"It's nothing compared to the leg you made me—"

Dell kissed his flesh again, his hot breath stirring against Bob's thigh making him want to pull the man up and kiss him until he couldn't stop. "You're ashamed of it, aren't you?"

Bob exhaled shakily. "Not anymore, I'm not." He grunted when Dell stood up and pushed him onto his back with his prosthetic hand, leaving it there, firm and controlling.

"Good." He ran his hand over it one last time, flesh on flesh, before lifting Bob's shirt over his head and tossing it carelessly to the side. "Don't ever be ashamed of a goddamn thing you are, Bob," he said before he set his lips to Bob's neck, the hint of stubble on his chin rubbing against him.

"Oh, God," Bob groaned when Dell trailed cold, metal fingertips over his skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh. He helped get his boxers off, wriggling, and gasped when Dell grabbed his cock, his grip light, perfect. The control the hand was capable of was amazing. He had never thought something that masterfully crafted could exist, strong enough, he had seen in Dell's basement, to break through inches of solid oak, but also with enough sensitivity to hold a teacup—hell, to hold his cock—without any worry of disaster.

"Tell me what you want," Dell said, biting Bob's shoulder.

"Oh, Christ," Bob moaned. "I can't—"

"Tell me," Dell demanded, putting just enough more pressure into his grip that Bob could barely breathe with how good it felt, with how much anxiety it filled him with to have that promise of a vice grip on him with no chance of getting out.

"Can we do it?"

"Yes, we can."

Bob watched hungrily as Dell shed his clothes, stripping his shirt off easily, tossing it in the same direction as Bob's. He took care not to let any of their clothes get near Bob's prosthetic, still on the floor at the foot of the bed, as though it was a religious symbol and not a mere imitation of a leg.

His hands moved expertly as he spread lubricant onto his fingers, as he lifted Bob's leg over his shoulder (taking a moment to kiss his stub again), as he pushed his fingers into his ass and groaned at the tightness. "Been a long fucking while," he muttered into Bob's chest, laughing quietly.

"Yep," was all Bob could manage before he moaned, pushing back onto Dell's hand. Dell took no chances, or perhaps he was just a light sadist, but he didn't stop until he had four of his fingers shoved inside of him up to the knuckles and wiggling. "Just fucking— Just go!"

Dell laughed at him, but he obliged, gripping Bob's hips hard with his hands, one slick with lubricant and the other hard and unyielding, both colder than Bob could handle without squirming. He groaned as Dell slid into him, gripped the sheets tightly as he got used to it. His leg pushed against Dell; his nub moved as though the lost leg wanted to do the same.

"You all right?" Dell asked, panting in his ear.

"I would be more all right," Bob muttered, "if you moved a little."

"I can do that." Dell thrust into him hard, and Bob clutched his broad shoulders, grunting.

"Sweet Jesus," he moaned as Dell fucked him. "God, Mary, Joseph and fucking lambs, oh my fuck—" He arched up, and Dell ran his metal fingertips under Bob's back in the second he did, laughing at his dirty mouth, picking up the pace.

It was Dell's hand resting once more on Bob's nub that did him in. He came, biting his lip hard enough to make it bleed, and Dell followed a few seconds after, riding it out as long as he could before stilling and running his metal hand along Bob's body one last time; over his chest, his stomach, his leg, all slick with sweat.

He left the room, came back to clean Bob up. Trailed his fingertips over his stub again. Kissed the middle of his chest. "Bob?"

Bob turned, feeling like he couldn't get rid of the smile on his face if he tried. "Yeah?"

"I wasn't actually shitfaced."

**Author's Note:**

> BOB THE BUILDER, CAN WE FIX IT???  
> BOB THE BUILDER, YES WE CAN!!!!!


End file.
